


Lies and Apologies

by silentdescant



Category: White Collar
Genre: Apologies, Crimes & Criminals, Dom/sub, F/M, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Handcuffs, M/M, Obedience, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2157078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Prove you’re sorry.”</p><p>“Arrest me,” Neal whispers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies and Apologies

**Author's Note:**

> I've started rewatching White Collar. This ficlet has their season 1 dynamic, trust issues abound, though Neal's crime and subsequent arrest are completely non-canon. It's inspired by his arrest in s1e7, Free Fall.

“Neal Caffrey, you’re under arrest.”

Neal doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t try to talk his way out of it. He just looks at Peter, his brows knit together and his lips tight and thin in a sad sort of grimace. “Peter,” he says.

Peter stops him before he can say another word. “You have the right to remain silent,” he says. “Anything you say _can and will_ be used against you.”

Neal takes the hint and shuts his mouth, but he still gives Peter that heartbroken look. Peter thinks he should be the one feeling heartbroken—and he is, because Neal has lied to his face for months—but right now all he can focus on is anger. His hands are shaking with it, but even though he wants to throttle Neal, he holds himself well back, overextending himself to snap the cuffs around Neal’s thin, pale wrists without getting close enough to feel the heat emanating from his body.

They walk through the office like a parade. Neal’s the main attraction. Peter doesn’t give him the luxury of a blazer draped over his wrists this time, but all the agents present would see right through that anyway. Neal, for his part, holds his head high and doesn’t speak at all.

Neal makes it all the way to the car before whispering, “I’m sorry, Peter.” 

“Don’t speak,” Peter replies sharply. “I don’t want to hear another word. We’re calling your lawyer—”

“Peter—”

“Neal!” Peter snaps. He feels stretched taut, close to breaking. “I don’t want to hear another goddamn word out of your mouth, do you hear me?”

Neal, though obviously torn between responding to the direct question and following Peter’s directive, remains silent.

“Good.”

Neal sighs.

***

Only four days later, Neal Caffrey escapes. When Peter gets the news, he rolls his eyes. He sets everything into motion; it’s routine by now. Circulate Neal’s updated picture and aliases to foreign governments, watch every route out of New York, and keep an eye on the various credit cards and accounts that Neal doesn’t know Peter knows about.

To Peter’s surprise, Neal is waiting for him when he gets home from work. Elizabeth is at an event all day and well into the evening, so Neal’s there alone. Peter doesn’t know how long he’s been there. When Peter walks in, Neal’s sitting calmly on the couch, absently petting Satchmo. The dog is so taken with Neal that he doesn’t even come to greet Peter at the door.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asks.

“Waiting for you,” Neal replies simply.

“I can see that. I meant why.”

“I needed to tell you I’m sorry, Peter. I’m so, so sorry.”

Peter scoffs. “For what? Not for stealing. Certainly not for forging a painting. What are you sorry for, Neal?”

“I’m sorry I lied.”

He sounds sincere. The problem is, he always sounds sincere. He’s a con man who has proved himself capable of tricking Peter, and Peter knows the shape and feel of Neal’s lies better than anybody.

“You realize you’re admitting guilt to an FBI agent?”

Neal waves a hand. “I know you have evidence.”

“Why did you break out yet again?”

“I needed you to know.”

“I don’t believe you.” Neal’s face falls, but before he can respond, Peter bites out, “Prove you’re sorry.”

Without hesitating, Neal raises both hands in front of him, the underside of his wrists upturned and close together. His fingers are curled loosely and, as far as Peter can tell, he’s not holding anything.

“Arrest me,” Neal whispers.

“Again?”

“I just needed to apologize to you,” he explains. “Arrest me again. I’ll cooperate.”

Peter takes out a set of cuffs as if on autopilot. Neal’s sitting, this time, staring up at him with wide, sorrowful eyes. Peter’s much closer now than he was before. He lets Neal’s knuckles brush the sides of his jacket as he slips the curve of the first cuff around Neal’s left wrist and slowly clicks the other half in place. Neal doesn’t struggle, and he doesn’t take his eyes off Peter.

“I have a better idea,” Peter murmurs as he snaps the second cuff closed. “Go upstairs to my bedroom. Don’t touch anything, don’t look at anything, just go.”

Neal, his hands locked in front of him, trudges up the stairs with his head bowed, looking more ashamed now than he ever did at the office. He reaches out once to twist the doorknob and then his hands return to their previous position, clasped gently. The cuffs clink and rattle quietly, but it seems loud in the silence.

“Neal,” Peter says, and to his shock, Neal drops smoothly to his knees in the middle of the room. Peter can’t say he minds Neal’s misinterpretation; he’s intrigued that this was Neal’s first instinct, and it makes him cock his head a little, reevaluate Neal’s character.

As Peter watches, Neal suddenly winces and lifts his hands to press his palms to his forehead. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he stutters. His shoulders are heaving with the deep breaths he’s taking. He must’ve realized his mistake.

“It’s alright,” Peter assures him. He lays a hand on the crown of Neal’s head, gently petting his thick, dark hair. “You did good, Neal. Put your hands down now.”

Neal does so, and Peter circles around him to sit on the bed. He rests his elbows on his knees and peers at Neal, at his down-turned eyes, at his lax fingers, and tries to decide what to do.

“Can you get out of those cuffs?” he asks unnecessarily. He knows Neal can. “Yes or no.”

“Yes,” Neal answers.

“Do it.”

“What?”

“I want to watch you. Get out of the cuffs, Neal.”

“Do you want me to—”

“Pretend I’m not watching,” Peter says. “What would you do?”

Neal takes a quick breath and seems to settle significantly. He doesn’t look at Peter; his eyes are unfocused and his expression is blank and relaxed. He reaches into his breast pocket and retrieves a small silver pick, a simple one, probably the only one he’s carrying. Cuffs are easy to pick. He unlocks them within seconds and lets his hands fall to his sides. The silver lock pick glimmers between the fingers of his right hand.

“Is that all you’re carrying?”

Neal turns out his pockets. He has a money clip with a significant wad of cash, a folded handkerchief, and an old cell phone, probably a burner.

“There’s a safe in this room,” Peter tells him quietly. “Find it and open it. I want to watch you.”

“Can I—”

“Pretend I’m not here.”

Neal rises as smoothly as he’d gone to his knees. He has a fascinating and frankly stunning control over his own body. He stands still in the middle of the floor and looks around in a slow circle. To Peter’s knowledge, Neal’s never been in this bedroom before.

He watches Neal’s eyes closely. They catch on places that could hide a safe: the photo print hanging opposite the bed, the closet, the bookshelf, the bed itself, the dresser, El’s vanity. Peter can see the gears turning in Neal’s mind and tries to imagine his thought process. He turns away from the vanity: does he think—correctly—that it’s more Peter’s safe than hers? Neal also discards the closet, but with a strange quirk to his eyebrow. Perhaps he’s leaving that option for later. He doesn’t even glance at the bed again and Peter has no idea why. When he finally moves, it’s toward the framed photo on the wall.

Neal doesn’t touch the art or even the wall around it. He stands a couple feet back and examines it, taking in every inch.

“What are you thinking?” Peter can’t help but ask.

“This is the most obvious place for a safe,” Neal replies immediately. His voice is low and smooth; he’s narrating his inner monologue. “Second to the closet, anyway, but you’re the type to build something in rather than buy it and hide it. It might be built into the closet, though. I’d guess behind the shoe rack, so pushing El’s dresses aside wouldn’t reveal it.”

Neal leans toward the frame and looks at it sideways, almost pressing his cheek to the wall. He’s careful not to touch, though. No evidence.

“But you know that,” he continues. “You like to play several steps ahead of your opponent. You wouldn’t put a safe here.” Neal turns to the bookshelf. “The bookshelf is yours—El’s books are downstairs and this is your safe, not hers. She knows about it, of course, but… I don’t think she has anything inside it. It’s somewhere here.”

Neal glances at the vanity and then goes into the closet. “I thought you said I wouldn’t put a safe in the closet,” Peter calls after him.

A few seconds later, Neal returns with a pair of Elizabeth’s gloves. He doesn’t look at Peter, but waves them in the air as explanation. Her hands are significantly smaller than his, but they stretch to fit him. “Yours would be too big,” Neal explains in an undertone. “I need to be able to feel through the fabric. Am I under a time limit?”

“Yes,” Peter answers without consideration. “I’m going to be home in twenty minutes.”

Neal nods his acknowledgement and returns to the bookshelf. It’s built into the wall, but there’s molding around the edges. Neal’s fingers glide along it, searching for something—a gap or a hinge, maybe. Peter doesn’t want to ask. He thinks Neal might be moving on instinct now, not consciously thinking at all, and that’s why the narration has stopped. Finding nothing along the outer edge, Neal steps back again and begins examining each shelf.

“It must be behind something. It’ll be easily moveable, not a whole stack of books. You wouldn’t want it to be a hassle to get into.” He begins touching the various knickknacks, lifting them and setting them carefully back in exactly the right place. “There’s no dust,” Neal continues, “so I have to watch closely when I move things. You’re going to be home soon. You’re sentimental. Would you have it behind a photo?”

Right on the money. Peter wants to kick himself for being so predictable. Neal gently lifts the framed photo away from the shelf and reveals the built-in safe. It has a combination lock, which Neal will definitely be able to crack, but—Peter checks his watch—now there’s the added pressure of time and combination locks can be tricky.

Neal sets the photo carefully on another shelf and squints at the lock. “You’re sentimental, but not sentimental enough to use something like a birthday or anniversary. It might be a combination important numbers. But you’re wary of being predictable, so it might be random. I only have a few minutes.” He breathes out in a rush. “What should I do, what should I do, what should I do…”

Peter doesn’t interrupt. Neal comes to a decision and leans his head in, fitting himself between the shelves. It’s awkward by design, so people can’t crack it by ear—if Neal was prepared, he’d bring a stethoscope or something.

“If I had my own phone this would be so much easier,” he mutters, and then falls silent again. Peter splits his attention between Neal’s closed eyes, his look of intense concentration, and his own watch, mentally counting down the minutes.

With four minutes to spare, the safe door opens and Neal takes three steps away from it. He’s grinning, wide eyed and giddy with adrenaline, but he doesn’t rummage through the safe. He’d only been told to find it and open it, Peter realizes. This thought makes his breath catch in his throat. Neal will not invade Peter’s privacy. He will not push Peter’s boundaries. He will not disobey. He probably won’t lie.

“Do you want to look inside?” Peter asks curiously.

“Do you want me to?” Neal asks, turning to look at Peter instead. Peter shakes his head and Neal mirrors him. “I have four minutes before you get home,” he says then. “I have to close it and replace the picture and the gloves.”

“Go ahead.”

Neal returns everything to its previous condition with the same silent efficiency he’d employed to open the safe, and Peter has no doubt the gloves will be exactly where Elizabeth left them in in the closet.

When he’s finished, Neal comes back to the center of the room and sinks to his knees again. He stares up at Peter. “Do you want to handcuff me again?” he asks.

He picks up the discarded cuffs and holds them out to Peter, who takes them. Neal’s fingers are hot from the gloves and ever-so-slightly damp with sweat.

“What’s the point?” he asks. “You’ll just break out of them again.”

Neal hands over the lock pick. It’s a nice gesture, even though Peter knows he could get out of the cuffs without it. Neal has magic escaping powers, he’s sure of it.

“Wrists,” Peter says, and Neal holds them out immediately. Peter’s not afraid to touch him this time, and he’s no longer angry. He rubs Neal’s wrist beneath the harsh metal of the cuff and drags his fingertips along the smooth skin of the back of Neal’s hand.

“Are you going to take me back to prison now?” Neal asks quietly. Peter gets the sense Neal would follow his lead, either way. Because of this, Peter nods. Neal accepts his decision with a cut-off sigh.

“Don’t worry,” Peter tells him. “I’ll have you back soon enough.”

 

 _fin_.


End file.
